


The Truth Is

by BulletBlaze



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Comes Back, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Heart Attacks, M/M, Scott is a Bad Friend, Stiles-centric, Thanksgiving, just canon-typical scott not listening, not scott bashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 20:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11426013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BulletBlaze/pseuds/BulletBlaze
Summary: “Well, you should get going then-”“You could come around some time-”A pause.“Wait, what?”A blush bloomed across Derek's cheeks, barely visible over the top of his beard. He shrugged again.“If you wanted to. You could stop by while I'm fixing it up. Help me with some things. If you wanted to.”“You already said that,” Stiles, the idiot, mumbled in disbelief.Derek's blush grew a shade darker.





	The Truth Is

**Author's Note:**

> This thing was kind of hell to write, but I really like how it turned out, and I've been wanting to write one like this for a while now.  
> The title comes from the amazing song that was the inspiration for this fic- Dismantling Summer by The Wonder Years.  
> This is for the Sterek Summer Exchange on tumblr! It's for the lovely bellamy-hale, who I really hope enjoys this :)  
> Enjoy!

“Nah, man, I get it… Hey, you do what you gotta do… Scott, I’m serious, I’ll be fine. I haven’t seen you in four months, one more isn’t gonna kill me… No, I’m not trying to guilt-trip you! It sounds to me like you’re trying to guilt-trip me over the fact that I’m not trying to guilt-trip you… Of course I miss you, you dick! Okay, you know what? I’m hanging up now. See you in a month.”

Stiles let out a sigh, leaned his head against the back of the couch, and closed his eyes, feeling utterly exhausted. He had to go make dinner, but that could wait a few minutes. He just wanted a moment of quiet.

“Son, you alright?”

Stiles’ eyes snapped open.

“Of course, Pops!” He forced his legs to work as he pushed himself to his feet. “Have you taken your meds yet?”

The sheriff’s eyes narrowed suspiciously- apparently the fact that he was on medical leave didn’t affect his observation skills in the slightest- and then sort of sagged. Drooped down sadly, shining with pity and disappointment.

“I thought we’d gotten past the lying,” he pushed softly.

Stiles felt his breath hitch with guilt, but he managed to keep the half-assed smile plastered on his face. “I’m fine, Dad. But Scott won’t be back for Thanksgiving after all. Something about forming alliances with the local pack at UC Davis.”

John nodded once and said, “Guess it’ll just be the two of us again. Or we could invite Melissa over?”

“Nah,” Stiles muttered. “Scott mentioned that since he’s not coming back, Melissa’s gonna take some time off to spend with Mr. Argent.”

The sheriff nodded again. “Well, I say she deserves the break.”

Stiles waited for him to say something else, but his dad was quiet.

“You mean…”

“I mean what?”

“You mean, you’re not…?”

“Spit it out, I’m not what?”

“You’re not… super into Melissa and super jealous of Argent?”

The sheriff sputtered for far too long to be telling the whole truth when he replied, “What, of course not! What got that in your head?”

Stiles raised a skeptical eyebrow. His father wasn’t the only observant one, after all.

Rolling his eyes and huffing out a quick breath, John said, “If you don’t get in here and start on dinner like you insist on doing, I’ll make my own damn food.”

“Oh, hell no! That’s not even funny, old man. I don’t know what you were sneaking behind my back for so long-”

“I wasn’t sneaking anything!”

“-that you managed to go into  _ cardiac arrest,  _ but I am never letting you decide what you eat ever again. No way, not gonna happen. You go sit down, and I’ll go start on the  _ healthy  _ dinner that is going to help you live to see sixty, got it?”

John sighed dramatically, but went to sit at the kitchen table, and Stiles went to the fridge.

The two existed in silence for the time it took Stiles to finish their meal while the sheriff read the paper, and it wasn’t until they were halfway through their plates that his dad looked at him and set down his fork.

“Stiles, son… I know I gave you quite the scare, and I’m sorry for that. But you can’t put your life on hold for your old man.”

Stiles huffed, “I’m not putting my life on hold-”

“I know you’re lonely, okay? Scott’s three hours away, Lydia’s across the country, Malia’s- actually, I don’t know where Malia is.”

“Taking a romantic year off with Kira.”

“The point is, all your friends are off continuing their lives-”

“Excuse me-” Stiles interrupted again, “they are not my only friends! Liam and-”

“Okay, but have you actually ever hung out with any of them? I know you’re all part of Scott’s pack, or whatever, but that doesn’t make you best friends. I don’t think you’ve really hung out with anyone since the summer-”

“That’s not true! I go see Mable all the time-”

The sheriff rolled his eyes. “The elderly librarian you see four times a week doesn’t count. She talks to everyone.”

“Wow, way to make a guy feel special.”

“Stiles, would you just let me talk? I know I scared you. I know you don’t want to leave because of me. But son, you had a full ride to Berkeley! And you got into every other college you applied to! And now you’re going to have to wait until next semester to even try again. You’ve been looking forward to college since you were in eighth grade!”

“Yeah, and I’m already signed up for classes next semester at the community college!”

“Dammit, Stiles, you’re missing my point! You can’t stick around for me! Neither of us are getting any younger, and I’ll be damned if I spend what could be the last days of my life still waiting for you to start yours!”

It got very quiet after that. Even the background noises- their neighbor who had been mowing their lawn, the sound of the laundry churning through the dryer, the TV that had been left on upstairs- all of it faded out, and all that was left was his father’s heavy breathing. It was so deep that it almost made up for Stiles’, which had caught in his throat.

It took Stiles a few moments of working on steadying his breathing, of trying to think through the pounding in his head, before he could form a response.

“You almost died.” His voice was almost a whisper. “And I wasn’t there. I can’t just leave you after that. What if it happens again, and I’m not here? What if you-”

Stiles cut himself off, not even wanting to hear the words said out loud, not while they were still a possibility.

The sheriff’s face softened, and then just sort of collapsed, like he was giving up the argument.

_ Good,  _ thought Stiles,  _ because there is no way I’m leaving. _

___

The next few days passed in a sort of tense, reluctant acceptance. Stiles wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, and they both knew it.

All-in-all, things weren’t too bad. The sheriff was taking his meds, doing his light exercises, and eating the doctor-approved food that Stiles was making for him. Stiles was making sure his dad did everything he was supposed to be doing, and spent most free time at the library or on his laptop trying to create an updated bestiary. It was slow going, but, well…

Stiles had nothing but time, at this point.

Things were calm. Thanksgiving was in less than a week, but it wasn’t like Stiles would be preparing the feast he normally would. Not with his dad’s heart the way it was, anyway.

The house was clean, his dad was napping, the book on pixies that he ordered hadn’t come in yet, and Stiles was bored. Restless. Kind of sad, kind of lonely.

And then there was a knock at the door. Stiles stood from where he had been perched on the couch, watching Supernatural reruns and went to open the door, wondering who would be knocking.

Maybe it was Mable. Stiles hadn’t been to the library in a few days, after all, and despite his dad’s doubts, Stiles was her favorite. Or maybe it was Melissa, coming to check in on his dad. Or maybe it was-

Derek. Derek Hale.

His piercing eyes were staring back at Stiles from the other side of the doorway. He was wearing a blue henley and dark, tight jeans that covered the tops of his black boots. The only thing that was missing was his leather jacket, but it was a warm day. Stiles could see the camaro parked in the street by his mailbox. He looked back at Derek, at his face this time. His stubble had grown into a full beard, and Stiles could’ve sworn he saw a few flecks of grey, despite the man not even being thirty yet.

It reminded Stiles that he hadn’t seen Derek since Mexico, over a year ago.

“Stiles.”

His voice was the same, too. Softer and lighter than one would expect just looking at him, but still growly enough to send a strange sensation down Stiles’ spine.

Derek had always made him feel a little funny, for reasons that Stiles’ highschool brain had refused to let him dwell on for long.

But that hadn’t stopped the dreams, or the gazing, or the quickening of his heart. He hadn’t felt that in a long time, but now, with Derek standing right in front of him, it was all coming rushing back.

“Stiles?”

He finally snapped out of whatever trance he had let himself fall under and shuffled forward.

“Derek! What the hell are you doing here?”

Derek lifted one eyebrow.

“Uh, shit, I mean… do you wanna…” Stiles gestured wildly behind him, “come in?”

Instead of answering, Derek just brushed past him into the house. It took Stiles a moment to recover, but he was quickly following behind him. Stiles turned off the TV and took a second to sweep the room with his eyes, looking for anything… embarrassing? He didn’t even know.

God, since when did being around Derek turn him into such a fucking mess?

It probably had something to do with the fact that the last time he had even seen him had been outside of an ancient tomb in Mexico before his senior year. And all the fucker had given him was a nod. Actually, the nod was to Scott; all Stiles got was a look. A  _ glance.  _ As if the past two years had meant nothing.

Stiles had thought about it a lot. Had wondered when he had stopped being worth the time.  _ Still  _ wondered.

He had a lot of time to himself, okay?

But still, there he was. Derek Hale, former alpha of Beacon Hills, and current brain food for whenever Stiles was feeling particularly bitter or horny. Or both.

Especially both.

“So,” Stiles started. He had no idea what to say, but the silence was killing him. “What are you doing back here?” was what came out. Straight to the point, he supposed.

Derek’s nostrils were flaring almost wildly, as if he had forgotten what the house smelled like. Then, his eyebrows drew together, in worry or confusion, Stiles wasn’t sure.

“What happened?” Derek asked.

Which, how did he know? And also, “Way to ignore me. I guess things are already going back to normal.”

Derek rolled his eyes and huffed, but the strange expression didn’t fall from his face.

“I’m rebuilding my house. Now, what happened?”

Stiles was floored. Derek was rebuilding the house? That meant he would be around for a while. And when it was finished, was he planning on selling it? Keeping it empty?

Or was he planning on staying?

Stiles didn’t ask, he had a  _ some _ restraint, thank you very much. Instead he said, “For real? Dude, that’s awesome! And, well, Dad… He had a heart attack a few months back, over the summer. Not really a small one, but also not a huge one, you know? So, we’re both staying home for the unforeseeable future.”

Stiles hated talking about it. It was still so fresh, and he was still so scared, so he rushed through the explanation.

Derek nodded, but he still looked worried. “Is he doing okay?”

The fact that Derek was back was big enough. The fact that Derek had come to  _ him  _ was even bigger. Now, the fact that Derek was inciting conversation, however much Stiles didn’t like the topic, was kind of mindblowing.

“Um, yeah, he’s okay. I mean, he’s not  _ good,  _ and his heart’s still not necessarily healthy. But they don’t think it’ll happen again as long as we’re careful.”

_ As long as we’re careful.  _ That’s the part that had been ringing through Stiles’ head since his father was released from the hospital at the end of summer. What if they weren’t careful enough? What if it happened again? What if his dad wasn’t strong enough to fight it the next time?

“How’d you know, anyway?” Stiles asked, distracting himself.

Derek sniffed around again, probably unnoticeable to anyone who wasn’t accustomed to the habits of nosy werewolves. “It reeks of fear. Not like your normal anxiety, it’s a lot stronger. And there's a new medication.”

Stiles nodded and snapped his fingers, trying to alleviate some of the tension in the room. “Ah. Those keen werewolf senses. Gotcha.”

The two stood there silently and  _ incredibly  _ awkwardly for a full minute. Then, they both broke the silence.

“I should probably leave-”

“You want some dinner-”

They both stopped. Stiles motioned for Derek to continue.

“I've got a person coming to the house to help me make some plans in half an hour,” he explained, looking… surprisingly apologetic.

“Oh.” Stiles tried to hide his disappointment. He knew Derek could smell it, anyway. “Who is it?”

Derek shrugged and answered, “Some professional.”

Stiles nodded. More awkward silence.

“Well, you should get going then-”

“You could come around sometime-”

A pause.

“Wait, what?”

A blush bloomed across Derek's cheeks, barely visible over the top of his beard. He shrugged again.

“If you wanted to. You could stop by while I'm fixing it up. Help me with some things. If you wanted to.”

“You already said that,” Stiles, the idiot, mumbled in disbelief.

Derek's blush grew a shade darker.

“I mean, of course! I'll definitely stop by!”

Derek nodded, and Stiles nodded back. He glanced at his shoes, trying to avoid another awkward silence, but when he looked back up the front door was swinging shut.

 

What the  _ hell  _ just happened?

____

In the end, Stiles held out for about 20 hours.

“Hey, Dad, I'm gonna head out for a bit, but I left you a sandwich and salad in the fridge for lunch, and I'll be back before supper.”

The sheriff was seated on the couch with a bottle of water, having just finished a set of simple exercises. He wasn't much a fan of the squats, and pushups were annoying, but he fucking  _ owned  _ sit-ups. He was hiding some serious abs behind the sweaters and a good layer of pudge, but when Stiles asked when he had gotten them, he said they'd always been there.

“But you never used to exercise! There's no way they just  _ stayed  _ for  _ years  _ without you having to work out!” Stiles had yelled indignantly.

“How do you know I never worked out? I had almost as active a youth as you’ve had here recently. That doesn't just go away, you know.”

Stiles had stared for a second. “What the hell does that mean? Did you have some crazy double life you're not telling me about?”

The sheriff chuckled at him. “I've never told you how your mom and I met, did I?”

“What, of course you- Wait. No, you haven't. But what does that have to do with you having abs?”

“Your mom and I met at a fighting tournament. I used to be a damn good martial artist, and she could still kick my ass any day of the week. We kept it up until she got pregnant with you. I kept at it a while after that. Still pull out a few moves every once in awhile.”

Stiles was quiet. Then, “What?! You mean you could've taught me how to fight years ago?! What the hell, Dad!”

“Language,” the sheriff half-heartedly reprimanded. “It was a life I didn't want to accidentally drag you into, and by the time I realized you had dragged yourself into a different, equally dangerous life, it was a bit late.” 

“I don't even know what to say. So you can kick ass without a gun? You can go one-on-one with someone and, like… strategize and figure out their next move and come out on top?”

Raising an eyebrow, the sheriff had said, “Well, I didn't get to be the sheriff on looks alone.”

The conversation had sort of fucked with Stiles’ worldview, for some reason. 

Maybe he’d tell Derek about it.

Speaking of, “Where are you going?” his dad asked.

“Uuuhm.. So.. Derek’s back in town?” 

His dad raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, he is? And you're going to… hang out with him?”

Stiles nodded. “He's rebuilding his house.”

“No shit,” the sheriff mumbled to himself, just as shocked as Stiles had been. “Well, tell him I hope it goes well. And that I’d be happy to help.”

“Ha! As if! I'll tell him the first part, but there's no way I'm gonna let you survive a heart attack only to somehow die out there building a house. No way. Food’s in the fridge, I'll be back in a couple hours.”

Stiles left to the music of his father grumbling at him, and he smirked as he hopped in his jeep and drove off.

The ride out into the preserve was familiar, but also kind of unsettling. He hadn't been to the Hale house in so long, he was surprised the path was so clear to him. 

Some time later, the jeep was parked next to the camaro, the SUV, and an RV.

Derek could be seen up by the front of the house, maneuvering a stack of wooden beams up the stairs. He was holding onto them with no problem, super strength and all that, but balancing them seemed to be an issue.

Stiles quickly got out of his car and ran over to Derek, grabbing onto one end of the stack as Derek slid over to the other. The man threw Stiles a thankful nod, and together they got the beams up the porch steps.

“So,” Stiles clapped his hands together once they had set down the wood, “what's the game plan?”

Derek stepped back down the steps and motioned for Stiles to follow. They looked up at the house from a little ways back.

“The woman who came to look at it yesterday said that the outside walls were all pretty much intact. There are some walls inside that need knocked down and rebuilt, but not too much. The fire was centered in the basement, so that's where most of the damage is. I was thinking about just filling it in.”

Stiles nodded in agreement. He was pleasantly surprised that Derek was talking about the fire with such ease. It would've been awkward if he had to comfort him or something. Not that Derek would have accepted a hug, anyway. And it wasn't like Stiles  _ wanted  _ to hug him.

Really, he didn't.

“I was going to start on the wall by the kitchen today,” Derek pulled Stiles from his thoughts.

“Sounds good.”

And so the two walked back up the stairs and in through the door. Derek led Stiles down a hall that led to a wall that had a giant hole torn through it, and Stiles vaguely remembered seeing it before.

“We just have to avoid that beam and that beam,” Derek pointed to two beams on opposite sides of the wall. “Otherwise the ceiling could start to cave.”

Stiles huffed nervously. “No pressure,” he muttered.

He could've sworn Derek smiled. But before he could dwell on the butterflies in his stomach, Derek was dragging a giant toolbox across the floor, pulling out two large hammers. He handed one to Stiles.

Right before they got to smashing the wall to pieces, Derek glanced at Stiles and said, “If there's anything making you mad, I've found that pretending you're hitting it makes you feel better.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows at Derek, shocked at the joking tone in his voice. Since when did Derek Hale joke?

“Well, here's to junk food that sends sheriffs to the emergency room, I guess.” With that, Stiles swung the hammer as hard as he could at the wall.

It broke through the wood with a loud  _ crack  _ that had a tingle rolling down his spine.

That felt  _ good. _

Stiles looked to Derek and saw him looking back, a smirk on his face. Stiles smiled back, and they started beating down the wall.

It didn't take long; it was a big wall, but with the hole in the middle and the enthusiasm with which they were going at the thing, it was a pile of rubble on the floor within twenty minutes.

Stiles was left panting, sweating, and grinning like an idiot. Derek was too. 

Well, he was sweating, and his breathing was slightly harder than usual, and there was a small smile on his face. It was good enough for Stiles, though.

And Derek was right; he did feel lighter.

“So,” Stiles started once he had his breath back, “What do you wanna do with all this shit?” He nudged the pile of smashed wood and old drywall on the floor with his foot.

“There’s a box of heavy duty trash bags in the RV.”

Stiles nodded before taking off back outside. The door to the RV was unlocked, and Stiles pushed his way through. He immediately took notice of the multiple locks that ran down the door, and thought it was ironic. Surely, with the kinds of enemies Derek attracted, some human locks- even fifteen of them- wouldn’t stop something that really wanted to get in.

But Derek was paranoid- Stiles knew that firsthand. And if having the locks made him feel better, feel safer, then who was Stiles to ridicule him for it? Not when he’d been sleeping with a nightlight since junior year.

Stiles quickly realized that he had no idea where in the camper the trash bags were. He may have used that to justify a bit of snooping, but he doubted Derek would care all that much. He didn’t have a lot in the thing, anyway- a modest bunk bed, under which was a dresser that undoubtedly held his countless henleys and pairs of unfairly tight jeans that made his ass look- that probably cut off circulation to his calves. Yep, that’s definitely where Stiles meant to go with that thought.

Definitely.

_ Okay, Stiles. Just find the trash bags and leave. _

Three drawers, two cabinets, and one completely warranted peek onto the top of the bunk bed (that revealed a boring, gray blanket, but a whopping five pillows) later, Stiles was making the trek back from the RV to the house with a box of the tough, black trash bags in his hand. However, instead of going inside, Stiles was met with the backside of Derek, bent over a cooler on the porch, rifling through the ice.

Stiles made an effort not to ogle, but… well.

Derek’s jeans were  _ so tight. _

But then Derek straightened up and turned around and Stiles had to avert his eyes real quick. Not that looking at Derek’s face was such a hardship, or anything.

He had really pretty eyes. And that beard could bring anyone to their knees; but especially Stiles.

_ Shit,  _ Stiles kicked himself.  _ That is not an image I needed right now. _

Derek was either completely unaware of Stiles mental anguish or he was generously ignoring it, because instead of yelling at Stiles or throwing him into a wall, he just handed him a bottle of blue gatorade. Stiles’ favorite.

When Derek sat down on the porch step, Stiles only hesitated a moment before settling down next to him; there weren’t many other options, anyway.

The two sat together in oddly comfortable silence while they drank from their bottles. The sun was high in the sky, but the day was cool, as per their typical California November. The sweat soaking into Stiles’ shirt was quickly cooling, drying, and sticking to his skin. Stiles yearned to just take the damn thing off, but with Derek right next to him? Yeah, no.

Maybe Derek should, though. Werewolves ran hotter than humans, after all, and Derek was already pretty sweaty. He was practically glistening with it, arms shiny, neck slick, hair damp.

“When’s your dad going to be able to go back to work?”

If there was one way to kill the mood real fast, even if the mood was just in Stiles’ head, talking about his dad’s medical problems was probably the best way to go.

“Hopefully soon. He’s been getting better everyday, with the meds and the exercising and the healthy eating. Once he does get back, he won’t be doing any of the exciting stuff for a while, though.” And thank god for that.

Derek nodded in acknowledgment and took another swig from his bottle of red gatorade.

The silence that followed was peaceful, and Stiles didn’t feel the urge to fill it with chattering like he normally did. It was kind of nice. Really nice, actually.

The next few hours were filled with tearing down and cleaning up, guzzling gatorade and Derek finally taking off his shirt. Stiles’ followed soon after, and the few times their skin brushed was enough to send shivers down Stiles’ spine. They talked some, and the conversation was surprisingly easy to hold. Stiles did most of the talking, obviously, but Derek seemed perfectly content to listen, offering his two cents or a dry remark when appropriate.

When Stiles finally left, Derek gave him a real smile and a wave, which Stiles clumsily returned as he tried to stomp down on the butterflies that were soaring around in his stomach.

God, he was so fucked.

___

It was two days until Thanksgiving when it happened.

Stiles and his dad were eating breakfast for dinner- omelets made of egg whites- talking about what they would be having for the holiday. Stiles had bought a small turkey, ingredients for a green bean casserole, and some whole wheat dinner rolls that he planned to prepare the morning of Thanksgiving day. The day was cool and breezy, but dark clouds were approaching overhead, blocking out the sun and promising a storm.

Stiles was talking about this healthy substitute for gravy he had found the recipe for when he noticed his dad stretching his neck, as though something was aching. He then shifted his jaw and lifted a hand to massage it. When his hand slid down to rub at his left shoulder, all of the ‘heart attack warning signs’ articles came rushing back, and Stiles knew.

His phone was out of his pocket in an instant, fingers dialing 911 without him consciously doing so, and his feet carried him around the table to his father.

“Dad, look at me, I think you’re having another heart attack,” Stiles said urgently. 

_ “911, what is your emergency?” _

“My dad, we need an ambulance. I think he’s having a heart attack. We’re at 4573 Kentland Lane- the sheriff’s house.”

_ “The paramedics are being sent out right now. Can you tell me any symptoms he’s showing?” _

“Dad, does your chest hurt?”

The sheriff nodded, but it was a weak, pained movement. His hand was clutching onto the table, knuckles turning white, and his other was still rubbing across his shoulder and chest.

“Pain in his chest, jaw, and left shoulder. He had a heart attack five months ago.”

_ “Okay, the ambulance should be there in about five minutes. Is your father awake?” _

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s awake, but… I don’t know, he looks kind of weak.” Stiles’ voice, while calm and collected at first, was starting to get shakier as the fear hit him. 

It was happening again. 

_ “-ir, Sir! Are you still there?” _

Stiles shook himself and gripped the phone tighter. “Yes, I’m here. What- what do I do? What am I supposed to do?”

His dad’s breathing was becoming faster, raspier, and Stiles’ was, too. 

_ “Most importantly, stay calm, okay? If you panic, it may cause him to panic. That will only make things worse, so stay calm. Can you do that for me?” _

Yeah, easier said than done.

“I’ll try,” he gasped out.

_ “Okay, now, if your father is wearing any constricting clothing, like a button up shirt, a tie, or a tight jacket, I need you to loosen it, okay?” _

His dad was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, and Stiles didn’t know what to do.

“No, he’s not wearing anything tight. What do I do? Do I need to take his shirt off? Should I lay him down? What do I do?!” Stiles yelled desperately into the phone. Fear was gripping his heart tight, and wasn’t that fitting?

_ “Sir, what was the first thing I told you to do?” _

Stiles had to take a moment to breathe and think back, and that was probably the operator’s intention, before he could remember.

“To stay calm. I have to stay calm.” Stiles took a deep breath.

_ “Exactly. Do you know why that is?” _

Stiles thought about all of the research he’d done on heart attacks over the past few months, recalling articles on responding and first aid that he had forgotten in his panic.

“If I panic, he might panic. If he panics, more adrenaline will be released in his body, and that could make things worse,” he stumbled over the recollection. Stiles took a few deep breaths, holding them and then releasing them slowly. His dad was still clutching at his chest, and his eyes were screwed tightly shut. But he was conscious, and that was better than the last time.

The operator continued to talk to Stiles, asking him questions and keeping him calm, and then Stiles could hear the sirens. He almost sobbed in relief and told the person on the other end of the line. 

_ “That’s good. Go make sure the door is open so they can get in quickly, okay? Can you do that?” _

Stiles nodded, forcing himself back into a standing position, and then realized they couldn’t hear him nod.

“Yeah, I can do that.”

Walking away from his father took everything Stiles had. But he ran to the door, swiped at the lock, and threw the door open before running back to his dad’s side.

The sirens were right outside, and Stiles could hear voices quickly approaching his house.

_ “You did good. The paramedics will take care of him now, but you did a really good job calling so fast. Are you okay?” _

“Yes. I’m… I’ll be fine. Thank you.” Stiles hung up the phone as a team of medics entered the house with a gurney. Stiles had enough sense of mind to get out of the way, and he pressed his back against the kitchen wall and watched as the medics pried his father away from the table and chair, laying him on the gurney and rolling him back out the door.

It wasn’t until the house was empty once again that Stiles remembered to follow. He sprinted out the door, barely closing it, and made it to the ambulance just as they were finishing loading his dad into the vehicle. He was ushered inside the back, where he sat by his father’s side, watching intently with stinging eyes as they took his vitals and put an oxygen mask over his face.

The ride to the hospital was entirely too long and over in an instant. Stiles could barely focus on anything, and vaguely remembered that in his insistence to get his father to take his meds, he had forgotten to take his own. It was all a blur in the back of his mind, though, and Stiles couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment, anyway.

And then they were there, and his father was taken to the ER, and Stiles tried to follow but wasn’t allowed through the doors, and he didn’t know what to do.

After minutes of standing in front of the doors his father had disappeared through, he forced his legs to walk over to the desk of the waiting room. He was about to ask for Melissa, but then remembered that she was off for the week.

He didn’t know if he would’ve been able to get the words out, anyway.

The receptionist asked if he needed anything, and Stiles shook his head and walked over to an empty chair. There weren’t many people in the room, but it still felt suffocating. The place was familiar, but none of the people were, and Stiles just wanted someone he knew, someone he could trust.

He looked down at his shaking hands and saw his phone still clenched in his fist. So he unlocked it and swiped through his contacts, shakily skipping past ‘Dad’, hesitantly surpassing ‘Derek’, and eventually fell on ‘Scott’.

He clicked the contact and hit the call button, bringing the phone shakily to his ear and listened to the ringing.

It rang once, twice, three times before Scott’s voice came through.

_ “Stiles, I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you back in a bit, okay?” _

Stiles’ voice came back quickly upon hearing that, and he felt the panic start to build up in his chest once again.

“No, Scott, wait-”

_ “Stiles, I really can’t talk. I’m meeting with the alpha of the pack here in a few minutes and I can’t be late. I’ll call you back.” _

“Scott, listen! It’s my dad, he’s-”

There was a  _ beep  _ and Stiles was on his own.

“He’s…”

_ Dying,  _ his mind supplied.

Stiles’ arm feel to his lap, and his phone fell to the floor. Tears came streaming from his eyes and a sob tore its way from his throat. Stiles cried for what felt like hours; if it was actually that long, he didn’t know, nor did he care. He cried until his eyes were dry and his cheeks were stiff and his head was pounding. Then, he fell asleep.

___

His dad was okay.

_ His dad was okay. _

Stiles had been woken by a doctor hours after passing out, who gave him the news that the attack had been very minor and there wasn’t any significant damage done. 

It was about two in the morning of the next day and Stiles was told he could sleep in his dad’s room for the rest of the night. 

As the nurse set up the recliner with a blanket and a pillow, Stiles looked at his unconscious father, lying still on the hospital bed, drowned out by the white gown and the fluorescent lights, which Stiles quickly turned off. He didn't want to see his dad so pale, not again. Not so soon.

The nurse threw him a sympathetic look and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re very strong.  _ Both  _ of you. He’s going to be okay, hon.” Stiles nodded, eyes feeling wet again. But he didn’t let any tears fall this time.

“Get some rest, okay?” she patted his arm, waited for him to nod again, and then left the room, closing the door with a soft click.

Stiles restlessly slept for a few hours and then spent the day next to his father. The sheriff woke up a few times throughout the day, and spent an hour or two eating and trying to subtly comfort his obviously scared-but-trying-to-hide-it son. There were staunched tears and cut off apologies and broken reassurances, but nothing made Stiles feel as much as when his dad pulled him down into a tight embrace. Then, they didn’t have to act strong for one another, and neither mentioned it when they both had to wipe their cheeks once Stiles sat back up.

Once the day had come and gone, of which all of it Stiles had spent in the room, he was tag-teamed by his father and about three nurses, pressured into going home, getting a shower, sleeping in his bed, just getting out of the hospital for a while.

It took them nearly half an hour to convince Stiles, but eventually he was getting a ride home from one of the nurses he knew quite well from his  _ many  _ hospital excursions.

Soon, Stiles found himself sitting on the couch in his living room.

The house was so quiet. So still. Stiles started to feel stretched thin.

He needed noise, he needed movement. He needed to feel productive, or he was going to go insane; he was going to break down.

And so he jumped to his feet and marched into the kitchen. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving, he already bought the food, like hell was he going to let it go to waste.

So he put the turkey in the oven, he got out pots and pans, sliced the green beans into thin strips, diced up onions, pounded against whole wheat bread dough, cut his finger while chopping a beet into slices, spent a full three minutes shouting abuse at his can-opener, spent another ten sitting on the floor with his head in his hands, just trying to keep it together.

The food was all finished, packed into tupperware containers, and stacked in the fridge by four the morning of Thanksgiving. The stack of dishes were all cleaned, dried, and back in their cupboards and drawers by five. Stiles was lying awake in bed until seven.

He slept until one.

He had packed portions of the food into different containers, making small meals that he planned to take to the nurses helping his dad. He knew his dad couldn’t have it; he was being given special and moderated food to go with his medications; no outside food allowed.

It was the same drill as last time.

When Stiles got to the hospital, his father was asleep. They said he probably would be for a while- a heart attack, no matter how minor, took a lot out of a person.

But the nurses took the food with kind, grateful smiles, and gave him hugs and ‘thank you’s and variations of ‘You’re a good kid, I’m sorry you have to go through this’. The ‘again’ wasn’t said aloud, but they all heard it.

Then, they sent Stiles back home. The nurses had to go back to work, so there was really no reason for Stiles to stay. His dad wasn’t awake, Melissa wasn’t there, and it held too many bad memories for him to be even slightly comfortable, anyway.

His house felt just as cavernous as it had the night before, though, and he definitely didn’t want to stay. Didn’t think he  _ could. _

Going over the options in his head was… kind of pitiful. The Mini Pack was probably doing their own thing with their own families, and his dad had been right; Stiles didn’t hang out with them, and inviting himself over for Thanksgiving dinner most likely wouldn’t go over very well.

He could call Scott, but… Well. The last time he did that, the conversation didn’t exactly go as planned, and now that he’d had time to think about it, Stiles was pissed.

So, no Scott. And that really only left…

The guy that just moved back, had less family to spend the holidays with than Stiles had, and probably hadn’t had a home cooked meal in far too long.

It was… kind of perfect, actually.

Now, here was to hoping that it would be well received.

___

When Stiles showed up at Derek’s house at four in the afternoon of Thanksgiving Day, arms piled high with containers of food, probably reeking of anxiety and exhaustion, he expected some questions. Some raised eyebrows. Some  _ anything. _

Instead, what he got was Derek, who had obviously heard his car drive up, meeting him at the end of the path that opened up into the clearing with his arms crossed and a neutral expression.

Stiles nervously approached the man, already feeling resentment for his earlier self, who hadn’t anticipated the now inevitable rejection.

Except, rejection wasn’t what he got, either.

He didn’t get anything.

Derek just turned tail and walked back into his RV, not saying a single word to Stiles. Which shouldn’t have been so surprising, but… part of Stiles- most of Stiles- had thought that with that day they spent together, they were  _ getting somewhere.  _ He didn’t know where, but somewhere better than before. And maybe it wasn’t exactly where Stiles  _ wanted  _ it to go, but he knew when to quit; he knew when to take what he could get. That’s a lesson he’d learned, time and time again, and he wasn’t about to fuck things up now.

But, now he wasn’t quite sure what Derek wanted him to do. The guy just walked away! Was that an invitation? Or a clear dismissal? 

Stiles may not be a pushy guy, not anymore, but he also wasn’t one to throw away an opportunity.

And so he followed Derek back into the RV, where he found the man taking two plates out of a cupboard and then ducking into the fridge, returning with two bottles of water.

So, invitation it was. Stiles felt immensely lighter.

Together, the two unpacked the food, loaded it onto plates, and nuked it in the microwave. Derek started to sit down at the pull out bench and table when Stiles spoke up. “C’mon, dude, it feels great outside. And it’s still light, which may not mean a lot to you, but really helps out a regular old human like me. Why do you keep this thing so dark?” he asked. The lights in the camper were very dim, providing just enough light for Stiles to see by.

Derek shrugged and answered, “I don’t like artificial light very much.”

“Fair enough. We’re still eating outside.”

In the end, Derek didn’t put up much of a fight, just followed Stiles out to the porch of his house, where the sat next to each other on the stairs with their plates in their laps. It reminded Stiles of the other day, and the memory of them smashing down walls, preparing to rebuild, actually  _ talking,  _ brought a smile to Stiles’ face.

Unbidden, Stiles’ eyes drifted until he was gazing at Derek’s profile. Derek licked his lips as he piled a heap of food onto his fork, but before he could lift it to his mouth, he caught Stiles’ gaze out of the corner of his eye. His head turned, and then they were just looking at each other. Stiles noticed that the green in Derek’s eyes was as prominent as ever, being brought out by his dark green shirt. His beard was so dark and thick that Stiles couldn’t help but look at the stray gray’s in the mix, although this time he thought they made Derek look softer, somehow. Less guarded. The old Derek would’ve never let anyone see something like a few gray hairs, even Stiles. The new Derek didn’t care. Stiles took it as a sign of trust, and smiled once again.

Then there was his mouth. He wasn’t quite smiling, but the corners of his lips looked like they maybe wanted to turn up, just a little, and show his… Stiles didn’t know. Gratitude? Camaraderie?

But then he saw Derek’s eyes drift, move down his own face until they landed on what Stiles  _ knew  _ was his own mouth, and maybe Derek was feeling something entirely different.

Stiles wasn’t lying; he  _ did  _ know when to stop. But that was the thing, he didn’t feel like he was pushing. He felt like he was being pulled.

The feeling persisted until he let it carry him closer to Derek, but not too far. He didn’t want to make him feel forced or hurried or obligated, or anything, really. He just wanted to give him a chance; to let him know that if he  _ wanted  _ a chance, he could take it.

And Derek did.

Their lips fit together so softly, firmly,  _ perfectly,  _ and Stiles felt so overwhelmed with sensation. Derek’s beard was a little ticklish, a little scratchy as it rubbed against his cheeks. His nose was smooth as it bumped Stiles’. His lips were amazing, hypnotizing as they moved against Stiles’ own- warm and soft and still a little wet from when he licked them, and Stiles had never felt something so good, so earth shattering.

So calming.

Stiles felt like nothing could touch him except Derek, and he was okay with that.

Suddenly, Stiles’ hands were empty- Derek must have taken his plate and moved it- and he used them to grab onto Derek’s shirt and pull him closer. The kiss changed into something stronger, then. Something Stiles wanted to lose himself in; something he knew he  _ could  _ lose himself in, if he just let it happen.

And he was well on his way to doing just that, until his phone started ringing.

Derek pulled away slowly, eyes still closed and breathing heavy- heavier than it was after their day of knocking down walls, and Stiles felt a wave of pleasant surprise and happiness wash over him because of it.

But his phone was still ringing. He kept looking at Derek as he reached for it, and their eyes met as he pulled it from his back pocket. Stiles only looked away when he had to glance at his phone, but he did it with a grin.

Until he saw Scott’s name flash across the screen, and the smile fell from his face. Stiles glared at the phone until it stopped ringing.

When he looked back up, Derek’s content expression had turned into a frown, undoubtedly picking up on Stiles’ anger. Derek looked pointedly at the phone, then back at Stiles, but Stiles just shrugged; he wasn’t in the mood to talk about it, not right now, and especially not in the middle of the  _ amazing  _ moment he was having with Derek.

But then it started ringing again, and Derek eyed him purposefully, and Stiles huffed.

“Fine,” he muttered and hit to answer.

_ “Stiles, hey man! Sorry I couldn’t get back to you the other night, things have just been really busy. But hey, the alliance with the pack here is looking good so far!” _

When Stiles didn’t say anything, just continued to breathe, Scott said his name a few times.

Stiles closed his eyes, trying to stay calm. He felt a pressure on his hand and looked down to see Derek’s covering it. Smiling lightly, Stiles turned his hand and let their fingers fall together.

Suddenly, talking to Scott seemed a lot more bearable.

“Good, that’s good.” At least it was a start.

_ “Yeah… So, what did you want to talk about? You sounded kind of upset.” _

And probably damn close to the end. Scott had noticed Stiles’ distress and had still so easily hung up on him? His packmate, his best friend? His brother?

Stiles clenched tighter onto Derek’s hand. Thank god for super strength, or the werewolf’s hand would be broken by now. But instead of pulling away, Derek just rubbed the back of his hand with his thumb, and Stiles once again found himself calming slightly.

But only slightly.

“Oh, it was nothing. My dad just had another heart attack and landed himself in the hospital again. But it’s fine, I know you were  _ busy,”  _ Stiles spat. He didn’t have it in him to be civil about it, not yet.

Silence sounded from the end of the line, and Stiles inwardly scoffed. You’d think Scott had learned by now. Stiles could see Derek’s eyes widen at the news from his side, and the grip on his hand grew stronger.

Then came a whispered,  _ “Fuck, is he okay?” _

Stiles’ returning laugh was a short and harsh noise, and he could almost feel Scott flinching through the phone. “I don’t know, are you sure you have time to hear about it? Or are you too busy kissing that other pack’s ass?”

_ “Stiles, I’m sorry, okay? I’m doing this for us, for the pack! I’m just trying to make things better! You called at a bad time, what was I supposed to do?” _

Derek inhaled sharply, Stiles held his breath, and Scott made a regretful noise. He caught his mistake too late.

“A bad time?” Stiles asked quietly. He jumped to his feet and started pacing, phone clutched to his ear as he hissed, “I’m so fucking sorry my dad’s fucking  _ heart gave out _ at such a  _ bad time,  _ Scott. Next time I’ll ask him to wait until you’re finished being some other pack’s bitch so that you can actually have the time to care about your own!”

_ “No, Stiles, that’s not what I meant! It- It was important, okay?” _

Stiles laughed, but there was nothing funny about it. “More important than us, right? Than me? That’s why you couldn’t even take two seconds to just fucking  _ listen? _ I honestly thought we’d gotten past that,” his voice dropped to a pained whisper.

_ “Stiles, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I’m trying here, okay? I’m trying.” _

“Try harder.” Stiles was done. They could talk later, much later, but he was just too angry to even think straight. “Dad’s okay, by the way. I’ll talk to you later.” The ‘when I’m ready’ went unspoken.

He hung up before Scott could even say goodbye.

Derek was there in an instant, just standing in front of him. Stiles pocketed his phone and looked back, seeing nothing but concern and affection in his eyes. It made Stiles feel fractionally better.

Still, when Derek opened his arms, Stiles didn’t hesitate to rush into his embrace. They stood there in front of the half-demolished house for a long time, sharing comfort and reasons to be at peace.

“Do you want to go see your dad?” Derek asked, breath hot on Stiles’ ear. After a moment of thought, Stiles nodded into Derek’s neck.

This man was too damn good for him.

___

The sheriff was awake when Stiles and Derek arrived, and he seemingly knew instantly that things had gone down. Both of the things. His dad was too smart sometimes, and Stiles loved him and hated him for it, depending on the day.

Right now, he really, really loved him for it.

Stiles didn’t feel like introducing Derek as his boyfriend, and no, that didn’t mean he appreciated the totally not subtle look he got from his dad, but he did appreciate the fact that there was no need to talk about it.

With Stiles, at least. He knew for a fact that the second his dad got Derek alone, things would be said. Stiles could only hope it would go well.

The sheriff also picked up on the lingering tension that Derek hadn’t been able to completely drain from Stiles’ shoulders. That, they did talk about, and his dad let him rant and Derek rubbed soothing circles into his back that were kind of effective and they both offered some sound advice.

Which kind of baffled Stiles, considering his dad literally never went to hang out with his friends, and Stiles wasn’t even sure if Derek  _ had  _ any friends, so where was this insight coming from?

But nevertheless, he took their words to heart, promised to talk to Scott soon, and assured that “Yes, Dad, I am ‘picking up what you’re putting down’, you’re not exactly talking in riddles.”

That didn’t mean he was  _ forgiving  _ Scott anytime soon; he wasn’t that easy. But he’d at least talk to the guy.

All-in-all, it was a nice visit. That is, until Stiles and Derek were walking down the hall after saying goodnight to the sheriff and Derek suddenly staggered a bit. Stiles looked at him and noticed his face was a bit pale and his mouth was drawn tight. Stiles dragged Derek to a stop by their connected hands and forced him to look him in the eye.

“What’s wrong? What’s happening?” Stiles asked frantically.

Derek just shook his head, eyes flicking back down the hallway towards the room they’d just left.

It took Stiles a moment of confusion before realizing…

“Oh my god, is he threatening you? Right now? While I’m standing right here, and neither of us can talk back?”

Derek nodded, but didn’t say anything. Then Derek’s eyes got wide and he started walking again. Really fast. 

“What did he- You know, forget it. Let’s get out of here.” Before they reached the elevator, however, Stiles turned back down the hall and shouted, “Coward!”

He got a few (dozen) confused and irritated looks, but Stiles ignored them as he and Derek finally were behind closed doors.

When they were finally alone, Derek looked at him with soft eyes. His lips were pulled up at the corners, and Stiles felt his own rise in response. 

“Thanks,” Stiles said, voice low. This was a moment he didn’t want to ruin.

“For what?” asked Derek.

Shrugging, Stiles squeezed his hand and answered, “For being here.”

And if Stiles had any doubts that Derek was leaving once the house was finished, they were chased away by his lips pressed against Stiles’.

Maybe it was coincidence, maybe Derek could read minds, or maybe he could just read  _ Stiles,  _ but he knew exactly what to say to make Stiles feel lighter and more hopeful than he had in god knows how long.

“I will be for as long as you want me.”

Stiles didn’t know how Derek was so sure, but he supposed he had a long time to figure it out.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you thought? It would make my year, I'm not gonna lie.  
> Thanks so much for reading, and I hope to see you again soon!


End file.
